


There's No Place Like Home

by OfficialStarsandGutters



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-28
Updated: 2017-03-28
Packaged: 2018-10-12 05:41:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10483317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OfficialStarsandGutters/pseuds/OfficialStarsandGutters
Summary: Mickey and Ian engage in a paint war while painting their new home.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Bloody_Mary](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bloody_Mary/gifts), [Mrs_Monaghan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mrs_Monaghan/gifts).



> I was doing some painting today and being Gallavich trash, it got me thinking about the boys painting.
> 
> Bloody_Mary & LuckyShaz asked for a paint war between them, so here we are.

“Mick, you're splashing paint everywhere. Oh my God. Here.” Mickey feels the warmth of Ian against his back before Ian's long fingers curl around his hand, guiding it and the brush within it to make long, steady strokes; up, down, up, down.

“Man, that's gonna take twice as long.”

“That's gonna do it right. This is our home. We can't go rushing and messin' up things. I want it to be perfect.”

“S'gonna be perfect as long as we both live here.”

“You're so gay.”

“Whatever, man. Have I told you you look fuckin' ridiculous? 'Cause you look fuckin' ridiculous.”

Ian does, indeed, in Mickey's opinion at least, look fuckin' ridiculous. He's wearing a white, translucent, nylon coverall to keep the paint from his clothes. Complete with hood.

“Just 'cause I don't wanna ruin my clothes. I still think you should wear yours.”

Mickey would not be seen dead.

“These clothes are probably older than me, alright? A little paint is only gonna give 'em more character. Oh, no, don't put the hood up. Jesus. Your head looks like a massive white condom.”

“Fuck you.” Ian lifts his tub of paint and moves further down the wall. He paints in moody silence for several long, tense moments, before Mickey gives in.

“Hey,” he says, softly. Ian glances at him but doesn't speak. “You do look a lil ridiculous, alright?”

Ian flips him off in response, so that may not have been the best approach at an apology.

“I just don't think paint is gonna make this place feel like home, alright?” Mickey drops his brush and comes across to Ian's side. “Fuckin' in every room... That would make it feel like home.”

Ian huffs a laugh, and Mickey feels like that's him off the hook.

“And we can do that, once everything is clean and painted and, y'know, furnished.”

“Or we could make a start _now._ Then do some of that. Y'know, a lil back and forth?”

“Can we at least finish the living room before this starts to dry? I don't want it to be patchy,” Ian says, looking at him with those big, insistent eyes. Not like Mickey even ever had a chance.

“Fine.”

Ian does the top half of the walls; climbing their shaky stepladder to do up to the ceiling, but able to do most of it just by stretching up his long arms. Mickey does the bottom; the details around the plug sockets and skirting boards. They meet in the middle. Ian's set his mp3 player up with some cheap speakers that crackle a little, and puts Ed Sheeran's (illegally downloaded) new album on repeat. It's not what Mickey would have picked as their painting soundtrack, but he knows Ian's got a soft spot for Ed, so he doesn't do more than just briefly tease him.

“Ah, your boyfriend's new album.”

“We've been over this. I don't have a crush on Ed Sheeran.”

“Except when you do.”

“Shut the fuck up.”

They're on their last wall. Mickey's starting to get an ache between his shoulder blades, and being so close to the paint smell is making his head spin. His hands are covered in flecks of paint and he's gotten a few drops on his threadbare sweats and the vest that was once a hoody, before he tore the sleeves off. He has to admit, it does look pretty good so far. It's an off-white colour, because white is too expensive, and this is what was reduced at the hardware store. Ian was right about taking their time; the paint lies smooth and even, and with any luck, won't require a second coat once it dries.

Mickey looks around the room as he rubs at his forehead with the back of his wrist. He feels a twist of giddy excitement in his stomach as it hits him again; this is theirs. Their apartment. Their own space. The beginning of their life together. Sure, it ain't much. It's small, one bedroom, was pretty run down when they moved in; but together (well, mostly Ian, but still) they've managed to clean it up and make it almost homely. Enough for them, anyway.

This is where he gets to make his memories with Ian from now on. Once every thing is unpacked and in place. The kitchen; where Ian will cook pancakes for breakfast and Mickey will make the coffee, and they will move around each other in the small space with practised ease. The living room; where they'll lie on the couch together, trading stories about their day as they veg out to some shitty TV show. The bathroom; where they'll brush their teeth together and Ian will pull faces at him in the mirror over his shoulder which Mickey will pretend he doesn't find endearing.

Of course, the bedroom is probably where most of their memories will come from. Cuddles and kisses and sex. Sleeping with tangled limbs. Mickey's grumpy grumblings when Ian stirs him, getting up for his early shifts or to go running. Both their clothes hanging in the wardrobe. Both their shoes at the bottom of the bed.

Fuck. He never thought he'd get this life; this domestic bullshit he never thought he wanted. Then, there's a lot of things Ian has brought out in him that he never expected. He can't say the changes are unwelcome.

Something cold hits Mickey's cheek and he jerks at the sensation. His hand automatically comes up to feel what it is, and his fingers come away with a fresh smear of off-white. Mickey's eyebrows ascend when he looks at Ian, who is holding his paintbrush out like a weapon, having clearly just used it to flick paint at Mickey.

“You're slacking,” he says.

Mickey kicks the stepladder. Ian reaches out desperately for something to steady himself, but there is only the wall. Mickey steadies him by the waist before he falls, and Ian drags his now paint wet hand down along the side of Mickey's face in revenge.

“Seriously? You are such a fucking child.”

It's a good thing Ian had the foresight to cover their floor in newspaper, because otherwise they'd have been stuck with off-white paint splatters all over it. Mickey tugs at Ian's coveralls to unbalance him. Ian springs from the stepladder and lands with a crinkle and thud among the papers, turning swiftly and flicking Mickey again. Mickey loads up his own brush and flicks back. Ian's mouth opens in a gape of shock after a thick, wet line of paint lands down his face in a diagonal line; running from his forehead, over his eyebrow, crossing his nose, and ending at the edge of his mouth.

“You're a dead man, Milkovich.”

Ian practically tackles him and Mickey laughs as he takes some of the weight; so he's half lowering them rather than just letting them crash to the floor. Ian is rubbing paint stained hands into his hair as Mickey works on literally tearing the coverall off of him. He knows Ian's picked older clothes to wear beneath it, just in case, and besides, you don't really invite war without expecting casualties. Ian should have known better.

“Awh Mickey I need them for doin' the other rooms.”

“Tough luck, tough guy.”

Ian growls, a sound that shoots through Mickey all the way down to his cock. He rocks his hips to give him enough momentum to flip them over, so he's on top as he pulls away strips of Ian's coveralls. Ian reaches for his fallen brush and stabs Mickey viciously in the shoulder with it. Mickey laughs, hits Ian's wrist hard enough to knock the brush out of his hand, and enjoys Ian's gaping shock for a second time when the brush lands in one of the holes Mickey has torn in his coveralls; splatting against his old t-shirt.

Things get a bit chaotic after that. They wrestle around the floor, pushing and pulling each other, occasionally dipping their hands into more paint so they can further cover each other. There's two large white hand prints on the ass of Mickey's sweats, and one on the crotch of Ian's. There's a white line running through Mickey's hair like a skunk, and little flecks of white clinging to Ian's lashes. As they're stained with more paint, they gradually lose their clothes, each pulling items from the other when they have the chance.

So in the end, it's somewhat of a compromise; the living room is painted, but they also have sex on the mess of off-white splattered newspapers. Ah, Mickey thinks, there's no place like home.

 


End file.
